


The Waking Dance

by face_in_a_jar



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Spoilers, Slow Dancing, it's another goddamn ball fic okay, just kidding I stop for no one, let me know when you have enough cheese on your fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 13:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20390794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/face_in_a_jar/pseuds/face_in_a_jar
Summary: When the quest for truth grows troublesome, and the road to justice spans long, what are you to do? Sleeping for a thousand years is a very reasonable choice. Staying awake and having an awkward dance, however...





	The Waking Dance

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the continued hiatus of YAM; my artist and bff Buttshop has been in lacking health, and both of our lives are following the script of Recession Millennial Classic. And low and behold, almost half a decade later, I'm writing the tale of yet another semi-erudite nerd with So Many Feelings and his big goofy nicejock boyfriend. I guess I have a type?

Linhardt’s research wasn’t interesting anymore, or at least in anyway he found pleasant. The texts started to repeat themselves, the theories and speculations of the scholars began to have little difference between them. New facts and theories no longer gushed from the earth, leaving him to dig through the rubble of false leads, dead ends, and frustration. Nothing was more exhausting than frustration.

Of course, only an utter fool would think the answers to the mysteries of life would be waiting on a tidy bookshelf in the second-story library of the Garreg Mach Monastery. Of course the secrets of the arcane mystery of man wouldn’t be pulled open on a sun-warmed oak table, framed by a ballet of lazy dust motes guiding him to a contented nap on a pillow of knowledge. And of course what would wake him up from a daze wasn’t always going to be Caspar, shaking his shoulder and reminding him to sleep in a bed or eat a meal today or the like, wearing a dizzy smile of someone who thought himself the babysitter in their friendship.

The truth was found where all the annoying, troublesome things were. Like muddy fields and long marches, meaningless grunt work and the sore joints they bring. And people too--some of them good, many of them loud, angry, shouting, fighting, and as of late, killing. 

But Lindhardt wasn’t so childish as to put discomfort over the pursuit of knowledge. So here he was, out in the wide world everyone said he was too busy napping to avoid. Just as he thought, it was almost more trouble than it was worth.

Granted, his timing was poor. It was the middle of the night, for one thing, and he was only out of the library because he was seized by the simple, miserable thought that he hated being there. So he took up the ‘why don’t you just go get some fresh air?’ advice everyone gives that never works, because what else did he have to work with?

In the end, he didn’t find any clarity, or even that much fresh air. Just an empty courtyard, dancing lights along the window tips, and a cacophony of mocking laughter, reminding him that he was the only one burdening himself with thinking too much. 

Right, right, the ball was tonight. That explained the miserable racket all day.

Well, wonderful for you, he thought, to the notes of music drifting through the trees. Have all the drinks and dances you please. If you need that much relief from reality, have your fill. But don’t look down your nose if I curl up right here, on this nice patch of grass, and watch the Ethereal Moon drift across the night. 

Despite the namesake, Lindhardt found it comforting in how bright, large, and unquestionably material it was. A moon was still a moon. Unlike Crests, which now may or may not turn men to beasts. And may or may not come from a reality that existed before, and perhaps in wild contrast, to Seiros’s divine revelation. 

And that wondrous warmth, he felt dance along his skin, when skin healed and friends were safe, and he felt so basically right wasn’t even him. For all he knew, it was some long-forgotten transfusion, an abysmal meeting of that awful, awful blood to--

“Linhardt! Hey, wake up already!” 

Yes, right on cue, there was Caspar. Shaking his shoulder, notably absent of his usually goofy smile though. What a shame.

“Yikes, you really scared the crap out of me,” Caspar said, as Linhardt groaned angrily, a nagging pinch in his shoulder indicating the hard winter ground was not as soft as it deceptively looked in the moonlight. “I thought you, I dunno, fell asleep walking and froze to death out here!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Linhardt said, rubbing the tension at his shoulder. “No one can fall asleep walking. Not even me.” Not for lack of trying, of course.

“You’re white as a sheet,” said Caspar, giving Linhardt a brisk pat on his cheek. Sure enough, his palms were warm. “Jeez. How hard is it to sleep in your own bed, in your own room, in the middle of the night?”

“I’m fine,” Linhardt said, his curtness betraying annoyance far better than any quip. Casper fell to his knees and Linhardt didn’t see his usual knife-edged gaze from the corner of his eye. In fact, he almost looked disappointed, which struck a sudden pang of guilt in Linhardt’s gut.

“Well, as long as you aren’t sick or anything,” he said with a shrug. “Come on, up and at ‘em. You can lean on me if you’re that tired.”

“Pass,” Linhardt said with a shrug, slumping back down into the grass, to have a straight-on look at the moon. “I feel like sleeping under the stars tonight.”

“Yeah, why dontcha do that when it’s _not_ freezing?” said Caspar, the tiniest corner of his gaze peeking down to look at him. It caught the most fly away tufts in his hair in the moon’s backlight, casting his puzzling gaze in an almost dreamy glow. 

“If I go back to my dorm, I’ll be closer to the dance,” he said, his chest shooting him a sudden, annoying insistence to take in the details of Casper’s face. “I’ll never get any rest with all that noise and...oh, please tell me you’re not going to try to take me to the dance.”

“Yeah, I’m not that kind of fool,” laughed Caspar. Linhardt must have been smiling, because he felt his cheek muscles curl and Caspar smile brightly in return. Too soon, he was out of view, and a light pulse along the dirt signaled he’d collapsed in the grass beside him. “Thanks a bunch for that, by the way. You know, if you were just in your bed, or at the library, I could have been having a blast with the others.”

“You worry about me too much.”

“Yeah, I kind of have to with people getting kidnapped!” Linhardt couldn’t see, but the light note of awkwardness gave too hasty a cover to what was probably a bit too genuine. “Couldn’t you have picked an easier place to look? Like the chapel or the Goddess Tower--”

“Why on Earth would I go to the Goddess Tower?” said Linhardt. “All those couples, mooning over each other and…” he tried to give a sarcastic snort, but it got caught up in a yawn instead. “‘Making vows’ to each other.”

“Yeah, and thanks, it was super awkward looking for you there,” said Caspar. “Seriously, what were you doing out here?”

“Napping.”

“I could have figured that out!” Caspar said. “Why _here_?”

“You answered your own question,” said Lindhardt. “No one would find me.”

A pop of protest started on Caspar’s lips, but with a faint ‘ah!’ next to him, it quickly vanished into a fresh breeze trying to shush them both. Alone, it would have been lovely--but in the absence of Caspar’s back-and-forth, it was oddly eerie.

“Really?” he asked. His voice was unusually quiet. Reproachful. 

Contrary to popular opinion (and his own occasional empty accusation), Caspar wasn’t stupid. Single-minded, stubborn as the very walls of Garreg Mach, but not stupid. If he truly put his mind to it, he could pick up every book in the library that Lindhardt had read and become just as much the Crestologist as he was--and probably at a maddeningly quick pace. If he could just summon the restraint to stay quiet and listen to everything Lindhardt had to say--the implications of Flayn’s abductions, the crest stones, the abominable fate of Miklan, the no-longer-certain fact of what the crests even are--he would no doubt be able to process it.

And worst of all, he could, and probably eagerly would, carry the same weighty doubt. If only so Linhardt wouldn’t be alone.

“Everything’s gotten so troublesome lately, hasn’t it?” Linhardt said, trying to adopt a self-mocking tone. “I have a feeling even if I graduate and leave the church, things are going to be more of a bother.” Let alone that the stench of war is on the horizon, he thought. “Can’t you blame me for wanting to sleep through it?”

“How the heck long were you planning to sleep? A year?” Caspar asked. Linhardt’s retort was caught in another shivering yawn, enough that he needed to swallow it back twice before he could speak again. 

“Maybe a hundred years,” he said. “No, a thousand. A thousand would be perfect.”

“What?!”

“Because that’s when they’ll need me the most,” Linhardt said. “After a thousand years, everyone will hopefully be dead--”

“‘Hopefully’?” 

“--and all of this will be long forgotten,” Linhardt continued. “What really happened here? Who were we, and what were we trying to accomplish? Why did we get into so many silly little political tiffs?” 

Another yawn, this one almost eruptive. How come people think talking helps with these sorts of things, he wondered. He’s never felt more tired in his life.

“But I’ll be there to do what I do now--prattle on with all the pointless facts and details of this life we’re living,” Linhardt said in somber conclusion. “There may be a critical detail that could prevent our descendents from making all our stupid mistakes again.”

A very solid conclusion, if he did say so himself. And Caspar must have agreed, because he lifted himself and stared directly back at Linhardt. Unlike before, Linhardt now had a full view of his face. And unlike before, Caspar carried it with an ancient wisdom, and a sad camaraderie of someone who really, honestly cared whether or not he existed. For a moment, Linhardt marveled at the softness of such hard features. Something like this could only be the product of a long line of warriors.

And then, Caspar lifted his hand, balled it into a fist, and slowly, gently, brought it down to knock Linhardt lightly on the forehead.

“Ow!” said Linhardt. It wasn’t painful or surprising, but he felt a protest was due. “What was that for?”

“For saying something really dumb,” Caspar replied simply. “We don’t need you in a thousand years, Linhardt--we need you now.”

“If you need me so much, then don’t hit me,” said Linhardt, rubbing his head. “Though we both know you’d be fine without me.”

“Fine!” Caspar said, lifting himself back to a sitting position, looking down at Linhardt and pointing at his forehead. “Then hit me back!”

“No. That’s stupid,” Linhardt said. “Why would I even do that?”

“Because you need to...I dunno!” Caspar said, throwing up his hands as if Linhardt did. “Why don’t you ever just bug me for once? Crash into my room? Drag me out of training?” He looked lost for a moment. “Or...whatever your equivalent is! Falling asleep on me?!”

“You’re speaking gibberish.”

“Because I’m scared too!” he suddenly burst out. “There, I said it!”

“You? Scared?” Linhardt asked, shaking his head on the ground.

“Yes! Me! Scared!” Linhardt caught a very rare flash of shame in Casper’s eyes as he turned away, leaving a suddenly empty view of the sky above. Linhardt dragged himself onto his own knees to get a better view of Caspar, arms crossed, back to him, head bent to the ground. 

“You’re right. It used to be easier,” said Caspar, still not facing him. “There were bandits, we took care of them. Some hot-shots starting a fight, we went over and broke it up. And now…”

He finally turned away to give Linhardt an indignant look. “Anyway, you need to talk to me before you cook up a crazy plan like falling asleep forever,” he said. “It’s not like you to just up and run!”

Linhardt could only snort. “It’s exactly like me,” he managed before needing to blink out another wave of sleepiness. Good heavens Caspar, he thought, did you forget I came to the academy to take a vacation from home?

“Not for stuff that matters,” said Caspar said, shaking his head. “Stuff like Crests and your research. Stuff I can’t do. Stuff I just want to throw my hands up and give up on!”

“I’m not like you, you know,” Linhardt said. “I can’t just be a big ridiculous hero charging into threats head on.” He felt his words swallowed by yet another yawn. “For one thing, it’s reckless and a waste of time. For another thing…” 

His jaw popped in strain of the yawn, making it hard to find the sarcastic compliment he was looking for. It left him only with the bitter truth. 

“I’m not as strong as you,” he finished. 

Caspar looked surprised at his comment, which was laughable. Ever since they were children, Caspar acted, Linhardt reacted. Caspar dove into a friendship when Linhardt was content with reading alone and being as ambivalent to house Bergleiz as his father. Linhardt would leave justice or love or all those grand, high-minded, made-life-worth-living things to quiet reading. Meanwhile, Caspar was living and dying for them.

Casper’s eyes broke, and his frown deepened. His brow twitched in an angry knot. If it was anyone else, Linhardt would think he was close to angry tears.

“You want to disagree with me,” Linhardt says, “and you can’t, because you can’t think of a reason, right?”

“Yeah,” Caspar said. “Because I’m not as smart as you.”

“You could just ask me,” Linhardt said. “I’ll solve any problem, even if it’s against my own logic. You know that, right?”

“Which is more than I can do for you,” Caspar said. “Goes to show what being strong’s worth, huh?”

Linhardt had nothing to say to that. No, it was the opposite really--he had too much to say against it. It was a sudden sinking feeling that, on first thought, he assumed would make him unbearably tired. But instead, it had an almost painful weightiness, that only seemed relieved when he lifted his hand and knocked his knuckles so slightly against Caspar’s forehead, who could only respond with a look of charming, bright-eyed confusion. 

“I’m sorry,” Linhardt said. “I need your strength.” He felt himself burn with embarrassment; a weak apology and a trite excuse, and somehow it still hit a little too close and personal to what he really thought. It was as nonsensical as it was mortifying, and yet somehow Caspar’s face was dusted in a slight blush as he burst into a smile.

“And I need your brains,” he said, nodding as Linhardt’s knuckles rested on his forehead. “So no snoozing for a millennia without telling me, okay?”

“I’ll do my damndest,” Linhardt said, feeling his eyelids droop. “Though it’s sounding rather pleasant at the moment.”

“Let’s go then,” Caspar said, getting up to his feet and extending a hand to help Linhardt. “The ball’s wrapping up anyway, so up we go, getcha to bed.”

“It’s over already already? How terrible for you,” Linhardt said, letting Caspar lift him up to his full height, giving his hand an apologetic squeeze. “You really shouldn’t have wasted your big night searching for your idiot friend.”

“Something tells me this isn’t going to be the last ball of my life,” said Caspar, scratching his hair with his free hand. He didn’t let go of Linhardt’s. “Plus, most of it is a bunch of slow dances and stuff. Kind of leaves me out to dry.”

“So it doesn’t interest you?” Linhardt asked. 

“It’s not that I hate it or anything,” said Caspar. He didn’t look Lindhardt in the eye. “Just not my scene, I guess.”

“Not at all?” Lindhardt asked. “Not even if I asked you?”

“Well I--wha, what now?” Caspar asked. His sudden alertness would be funny, if Linhardt wasn’t stuck on his own audacious questioning.

“I…” Linhardt started. Suddenly, once again, he realized just how much needed to be said. More than a ‘sorry’. More than a held hand. And yet all Lindhardt had were small, stupid words to say it. “I was asking if you’d like a dance.”

“Here?” Caspar asked, looking around the empty courtyard. Linhardt had just enough time to absorb how silly it was to ask for someone a dance in a dark yard where the music could barely be heard in the frosting air, when Caspar shouted, “yeah!” and lifted their hands up to a dance position. 

Lindhardt nearly barreled over at being swept up, stumbling to right himself as Caspar swept him around. It’s true that Caspar knew how to dance as well as Lindhardt, but as in all things, the man furiously went to the beat of his own tempo. Not to mention his staunch refusal to be considerate of anyone taller than him. 

One particular deep spin nearly took him off his feet, and he was just barely kept in balance by his overeager partner in a gesture he couldn’t believe was deliberately coordinated. Linhardt took a deep breath, preparing to inform Caspar just how slapdash his dancing skills were. Instead, the breath cleared his headspace and opened his eyes, giving him yet another look at Casper, swept up in the distant lights of the night, eyes wide and bright in a smile. 

But it wasn’t his usual cocky grin, or his awkward chuckle, or even that sheepish embarrassed look that he’d flash Linhardt in rare and puzzling intimate moments. It was…

It was like the face he had when they were children, back before there were such things as Crests and noblemen’s duty. It was free, displaced from the fear and sorrow that seemed so omnipresent moments ago. It made Linhardt feel light, almost unbearably so. It made it a little easier to suddenly see the ocean of stars above them, and feel the brisk chill of the air, and feel the spring of his own feet moving along with Caspar’s.

It was not contentment--that was what Linhardt had before. It was its strange, maddening cousin that only exists in Caspar’s world, the world of the waking dance: happiness.

“I’m serious Lindhardt,” said Caspar, not catching Linhardt unaware this time. After all, their eyes were locked into each other. “You gotta bug me more often. Okay?”

“Why would you want that?”

“Because I want to be there for you.” Simple words, but like all the simple things tonight, it was said in a way that Linhardt felt rock deeply in his stomach. “Plus…” he looked like he was going to say something, but instead, his mad twirl began to slow, and his sheepish smile returned. “I owe you a lot.”

Caspar finally stopped, and Linhardt still felt the pull of the movement as he used his hand to balance himself on Caspar’s shoulder. He let the gravity take him down, and bring his face a little closer to that smile he liked so much. He didn’t even bother to stop himself from letting his lips press themselves into Casper’s cheek. A touch of warmth, the fascinating and alien feel of flesh on flesh, before he let himself lean back.

Caspar’s eyes widened, in what Lindhardt suddenly worried was a step too far. And then, his brow knit again; the bit lip a last comfort Lindhardt had that, yes, even for someone as loud and ever-trailblazing as Caspar, this was hard too. He felt Caspar’s hands wrap around his shoulders and pull him in. He felt Caspar’s fingertips grip into his back. The difference in their height was very apparent now, with Lindhardt’s neck craned awkwardly over Caspar’s shoulder. Something about it was strangely enjoyable.

“You owe me nothing,” Lindhardt said, feeling his arms wrap in the space between Caspar’s arms and back. “But I will.”

He felt Caspar squeeze tighter. “Promise?” he asked, oddly quiet with a hint of dry pain.

“Absolutely,” Lindhardt said. He could only hope his own embrace gave that warmth back. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate, more true summary: under the stars and shit, a GAY nerd thinks about his GAY feelings for his GAY friend (who he DOESN'T KNOW IS GAY for SOME REASON because I dunno they're both dumb as a sack of doorknobs, that's my kink don't shame me). anyoo they have a stupid little friendship dance and kiss-from-gramma kiss and then a REALLY HOT MAN HUG that's the kind of garbage that gets me off, give this trash some kudos
> 
> I know it's canon divergent to have Linhardt to start figuring out the big twists in the game, but I figure if my old lady brain can start putting pieces together by the end of Part One, a know-it-all teenager spending all hours researching The Plot Thing would too. Plus, he's got a support with Flayn--something had to have slipped eventually.


End file.
